


The Elements

by thievinghippo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Mythal created the moon, so the old legends say. And once, a young woman howled at that moon, begging for justice. Was it chance or fate? Even then, Flemeth could never decide. A story of the beginning of one existence and the ending of another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragondizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragondizzy/gifts).



**Water**

She has been known by many names.

_Mythal. All-Mother. Goddess. Wife. Enemy. Protector. Leader._

She is nothing more than mist now, barely able to hold her existence together, when once the _elvhen_ poured tribute at her feet, crying out her name, hoping for her favor. She understood the secrets of their souls, and those she deemed worthy, she would grant protection. Yet somehow, when she needed her powers most, she was unable to protect herself.

Since her fall she has wandered, listening, waiting, hoping for just the slightest chance, for all she needs is a sliver, the right someone to open their hearts and cry out for justice. She has heard the cry of hundreds, of thousands, but none had exactly what she needs.

Though justice, she now knows, is a bedtime story for children. It is the wish of old women for their sons and daughters, to help them sleep at night. It is a comfort, a lover’s embrace or the smile of a child, and one she no longer wishes for.

Once, Mythal created the moon, so the old legends say. Even she does not remember precisely how the tales came to be. But the legends she wraps tightly around her weak form, remembering how her creation came from the tears of the Earth, and her gentle touch alone convinced Elgar’nan to give the sun a second chance.

But if she could take her collective knowledge from the long years of her life back to that very moment? There would be no comforting Elgar’nan, no bargaining to allow the sun, moon and earth to all exist in peace.

No. No, she’d let them all burn.

The line between justice and vengeance is thin, sometimes twisting, until one is barely recognizable from the other. What one _elvhen_ might consider justice, another might think it vengeance. Mythal does not care what others think, not anymore. As long as justice is claimed in _her_ eyes, she will be satisfied.

So she waits, knowing at some unspecified time in some unspecified place, she will discover her vessel, allowing her to be whole again and bring the world back to rights.

**Fire**

Flemeth runs.

She has no staff, but she’s never needed one to be dangerous. And now she runs, feeling like the wind itself is guiding her to freedom. Osen reaches out his hand towards her, but Flemeth ignores him. The young man will surely have his uses in the upcoming future, but for now, she wants only to be free.

“Stop!”

Her laughter echoes across the swamp. As if she would stop now, now that she has finally won her freedom from Conobar. No one ever again will put her in a cage. No one will ever clip her wings. This, she swears.

Energy crackles down her arm into her fingertips. Ready, she does the one thing the guards chasing her will not expect. She actually listens to them and stops.

They almost run past her, but Flemeth releases the magic in her hands and the guards burn to a crisp within moments. “Fools,” she whispers as she looks at the bodies. It would be a waste if not for the fact that the creatures of the swamp will feast on the men, giving some a good meal tonight.

“My love,” Osen says and she hears the pleading in his voice. It took a great deal of time and manipulation to convince the poet to help her escape. He’s given up his lively hood, any chance for a future, all for love. Such a weak and pathetic fool.

“I’m frightened, Osen,” she says, putting on an injured tone, the type of voice that makes most men want to jump to her defense. “They may send more. We need to find a place to hide.”

“There’s a village nearby,” he says at once.

“That’s the first place they’ll look,” Flemeth says. She bites her lower lip, and cocks her hip, the very picture of a women needed to be protected. It doesn’t even take effort anymore, the moves come so naturally to her. “I’ve heard tales of places in the swamps…”

A flash of fear crosses Osen’s face, the first true sign of intelligence she’s ever seen from the man. “The Chasind?”

“Yes, those are the ones,” Flemeth says, smiling broadly. “I knew you would think of something.”

She’s learned much from the Chasind over the years. They taught her to broaden her magic, to speak to spirits, to discover the power locked away in her soul. She yearns to go back to them, now that her folly is over. Oh, but if her plan had gone right, if Conobar had only _listened_ to her, treated her as an advisor instead of a plaything for his bed, the power he could have wielded would have caused all the other Banns to cower before him. She could have propped him up as king if he respected her as an equal.

He did not.

But Flemeth is free now. Free from the castle and the ceremony that seemed to overwhelm her, made her lose a piece of her soul each morning she woke up and had to look into the bright red face of her husband. Osen had been a useful tool, helping her slip away from Conobar’s grasp, but in the end, only a tool. And tools may be discarded when their usefulness is up.

“I hear something,” Flemeth says, looking to the east. It is the sound of _life,_ of the Chasind tribe that raised her. And now they will provide her shelter as she licks her wounds, deciding what to do next. She is meant for more than a solitary life here in the swamps, of this she is sure. It’s simply a matter of finding the right vessel to gain the power she’s only ever dreamed of.

Osen walks a few steps behind her as they head towards the camp. The Chasind will protect her against Conobar’s men; she’ll no longer have to worry about them capturing her.

The camp seems to still the closer she gets. Flemeth feels their eyes on her and she wonders what they see? Do they see a defeated woman, coming humbly back after marrying outside the tribe? She might have been born in Highever, but it is the Chasind who taught her how to be a women and a mage. Or do they see her anger at what could have been? She must be careful to hide her fury, the last thing she wants is to scare any of them off.

The chieftess stands at the fire, and holds out her arms. Flemeth almost runs into the woman’s embrace and feels the crackling of magic surrounding the Korcari Wilds seep into her skin. Here, she will be become whole again. Here, she will use her magic without fear. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to the chieftess.

The old woman pulls back slightly and Flemeth feels as if she is being judged. A flash of anger flares in her mind - _how dare anyone judge me?_ \- before she pushes it away. But she can tell the chieftess sees her anger yet still accepts her whole.

Flemeth closes her eyes and the crone brushes her lips against her brow. “Welcome home, Fire-Daughter.”

**Air**

She has been known by many names.

_Flemeth. Wife. Witch. Daughter. Whore. Abomination. Lover._

Flemeth thinks to add one more name to that list. _Fool._ Complete and utter fool, falling for Coroban’s ruse so completely. And now she’s paid the price, locked away in a tower with little chance of escape, though she knows she will find one at some point. After all, she still has her hands. If Coroban had any sort of wisdom, he would cut off her hands, leaving her no way to cast effective magic.

But how long will she be bound in this forsaken tower before that days comes?

There’s a devious streak in Coroban, one he must have hidden carefully from her for all these years. Instead of sending the army Flemeth expected, he sent a note with a messenger girl, a slip of a thing, no more than six years old. The note was simple, letting her know in plain words that he was dying and wanted to see her face one last time. And if the girl returned empty handed, she would be killed.

Flemeth always wanted a daughter, and the girl, with dark hair and eyes, looked similar enough to herself that she couldn’t find it in her heart to throw the girl’s life away.

She paid the price for her sentimentality. _Never again_ , she vowed. Coroban would rue this day. Anyone complicit to her imprisonment would rue this day. She would have made this man a king and instead he locks her up. The injustice pricks her skin, stings her eyes, and her whole body is ready to cry out.

The tower room has a window. One solitary window providing just the hint of fresh air and the tantalizing dream of freedom. Flemeth grasps the bars of the window and presses her face against them. “FREE ME!” she cries in her most awful voice, a voice that would terrify most men and cause women nightmares and children to run into the skirts of their mothers. “FREE ME!”

There is no answer, of course there is no answer, Flemeth thinks darkly, sliding to the floor. Despair starts to creep in as the walls around her seem to collapse. Her breathing becomes shallow and then almost erratic. She will die in here, she’s sure of it. “I am not meant to be caged,” she whispers, letting her head hang low.

Minutes pass. Or is it hours? Or days? Time ceases to exist outside of her cage.

And then she senses it. A spirit.

Flemeth rises to her knees. She’s heard of such things before, of spirits reaching out when someone is in true enough need. The Veil is thin here in the Korcari Wilds and spirits are often seen. She’s talked to a few herself as she’s dreamed. But never awake. “Help,” she says softly. “Help, _please._ ”

The spirit is judging her. Flemeth ignores the flash of anger and opens her mind to reveal all she is to the spirit, a being truly no more than a wisp. But she senses the _power_ the being holds. Absolute power. If Flemeth had only an inkling of that power, no one would ever again throw her into a cage. No one would dare clip her wings.

She’s never thought to become an abomination before, but she is desperate to leave this place before she gives into despair. Perhaps that it what Coroban wants, for her to give up and become a compliant wife, a trophy to show off to all the other Banns, the would be Chasind woman who he alone could tame.

She would rather _die._

The spirit speaks, not out loud, but Flemeth hears the voice in her head, clear as day. _Mythal._ She’s heard of the _elvhen_ gods, how elves cling to them even after the Dales were taken from them. The assumption Flemeth had was the gods abandoned the elves. She never thought perhaps they were forcibly taken from them.

Images fly through her mind, of the Forgotten Ones and of the pantheon and of Fen’Harel. She saw Mythal’s children: Falon'Din, Dirthamen, Andruil, Sylaise and June. Each one precious, especially the ones Mythal was forced to cut down.

“Yes,” Flemeth whispers. She can help this spirit, she knows she can. Together they will break out of this prison and Coroban will rue the day he tried to chain her. And then, they will wait until the perfect moment to strike, granting Mythal the justice she so richly deserves. “I am yours.”

Flemeth stands, head back, arms out, waiting. A breeze comes in through the window, a delicious zephyr, carrying in the scent of the elfroot she planted in the garden when she first came to this castle. Oh she had dreams of grandeur then, when Coroban showed her the garden. Her goal was to be no less than a queen.

And now thanks to his treachery, Flemeth will become a god instead.

**Earth**

She thought there would be pain.

Perhaps it will come. Perhaps there will be some sort of price, some sort of sacrifice, one that she does not yet expect. Whatever is required of her, she will gladly pay. The power, the absolute certainty coursing through her body is worth any offering. She throws back her head and laughs for what feels like the first time since she married Coroban.

It is dark inside her cage, but Flemeth’s eyes adjust quickly. She’s always heard the elves' vision is superior at night. Yet another boon? Another gift from Mythal? What other secrets will she learn? Mythal is there in her head, and Flemeth tries to dig deep into memories of ancient times…

_There is work to do._

The voice in her head gives her pause. It is a whisper in the dark, fleeting, but compelling. Flemeth does not think she has the choice to disobey. No matter, because why would she want to delay securing her freedom?

Flemeth closes her eyes, readying a plan of attack in her mind. She knows every inch of this castle. And it is time to tear it down, brick by brick. She will crush each brick confining her, and give the dried mud back to the earth where it can find new purpose.

It is time.

Her heart beats wildly against her chest as she unlocks her mind, delving into the well of power given to her, feeling the Fade surround her, envelope her, become one with her. No mortal will _ever_ be as powerful as she is now. And again, Flemeth laughs.

Oh if she only had known what could have been waiting for her, she would have wasted no time on king-making.

A flick of her finger and the prison door opens. A Templar, borrowed from the nearby chantry, with no sense of self-preservation rushes in. As he’s about to cast a purge, Flemeth attacks, with her full power, and the Templar falls over, dead.

She wonders what she must look like as she descends the stairs. The cackling of magic feels like it must be visible to even the untrained eye, but perhaps it’s all hers. Hers to call upon and rain down destruction. Some men are foolish enough to attempt to capture her. But more see the terrible look on her face and despair, running out of the castle.

As she walks, slowly, enjoying every moment of her new found freedom and power, she leaves destruction behind her. It is tantalizing, yet Flemeth has barely scratched the surface. There is so much more to learn. She’s always wanted to devour magical knowledge and soon she’ll have her chance. But first, she has one last thing to do. One last life to snuff out before she can leave this behind her forever.

Coroban almost impresses her in the end.

She finds him in his library, the messenger girl standing in front of him, a knife at her throat. Flemeth did not think him capable of harming a child himself in the name of self-preservation. No matter. Slamming her staff against the ground, her magic overwhelms Coroban. The girl is smart, running under the desk the moment he lifts his hand.

And then Coroban is dead.

Flemeth wishes she felt satisfaction at his death, but she feels nothing. He could have been king, but he threw it all away.

 _The girl_.

Her eyes close and she concentrates on the girl. There is untapped magic in her; she can feel the arcane energy surrounding the child. Mythal gives Flemeth knowledge then, a way to extend her life so she will never die. Flemeth smiles as she kneels down next to the desk and cups the child’s chin.

“You will be the first.”

The girl follows her without question and as they walk out of the library - Flemeth setting every book aflame as they leave - she puts her hand in Flemeth’s. A slow smile spread across Flemeth’s face. She always did want a daughter.

“I will teach you amazing thing,” she tells the girl as they walk, ignoring the sounds of screaming from those not smart enough to leave at the first sign of trouble.

The moment Flemeth steps outside, she kicks off her shoes, wanting to feel the ground beneath her feet. The dirt and mud is cool against her skin and she and her new daughter walk away from the castle. Flemeth looks at her old home and realizes there are some things she will miss, such as her garden and spinning wheel. But she and her child will find a new home and fill them with new things. They will create magic the Forbidden Ones could only dream of.

She is one with the earth now, no longer the water. She will become more powerful than Elgar’nan himself at his most dangerous. She will shape nations and control destinies. The sun and moon and stars will all bow before her.

As it should be.

**Aether**

She has been known by many names.

_Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth. Shapeshifter. Commander. Mythal. Asha_ _’bellanar. Mother._

Surprisingly, of all those names, Mother is the most satisfying. She has loved all her children, both human and elves, especially the ones who refuse to live life meekly, and instead grab it by the teeth. Especially the ones she has been forced to cut down, both human and elves.

The years pass, and new legends arise from the darkness. The Korcari Wilds becomes a place to be feared, instead of a place of peace and contemplation. And history can never quite decide what she is. To some, she is a crazed woman, a convenient excuse for men to claim when having stayed out all night, saying they were forced into her bed. As if she needs to force anyone into her bed. Men and women come to her willingly or not at all.

To others, the name Flemeth causes a tinge of fear, the woman who leads armies of shape-shifting witches bent on conquering the world.

The reality is quite different. Flemeth waits, she watches. And occasionally, she meddles. Of course she does. The justice she craves will not render itself, after all. The world is her chess board and she is the queen, controlling the movements of all the players. There are times it feels like her decisions are preordained. Chance or fate, she cares not, as long as Mythal has her due.

Years and ages past, but one by one, the pieces fall into place like beads on a string. And when those who have slumbered wake, Flemeth knows the time has come.

Justice, at last, will be theirs.


End file.
